Limits to Decolonization: Indigeneity, Territory, and Hydrocarbon Politics in the Bolivian Chaco

LIMITS TO DECOLONIZATION

Indigeneity, Territory, and Hydrocarbon Politics in the Bolivian Chaco

Penelope Anthias

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS ITHACA AND LONDON

Contents

Acknowledgments

List of Abbreviations

Note on Pseudonyms

Introduction

1. Imagining Territory: Contingent Articulations, Uncertain Compromises

2. Mapping Territory: The Limits of Postcolonial Geography

3. Titling Territory: Race, Space, and Law at an Indigenous Frontier

4. Inhabiting Territory: Land and Livelihoods in Tarairí

5. Extractive Encounters: Struggles over Land and Gas

6. Governable Spaces: Territory and Autonomy in a Hydrocarbon State

Conclusion

Notes

Glossary

References

Index

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to the many people whose knowledge, support, and hospitality made this book possible. In Tarija, two local NGOs, CERDET and Comunidad de Estudios JAINA, provided office space, logistical support, access to documentation and library resources, and sustained productive dialogue on research questions. Guaraní leaders at the APG IG and the CCGT showed generosity, patience, and courage in their engagements with me, as did non-Guaraní residents of O’Connor Province. Aldo Villena, Hernán Ruíz, Silvia Flores, Erick Ara´oz, Juan Carlos Arostegui, Guido Cortez, Pilar Lizárraga, Gonzalo Torrez, Ricardo Gareca, Denise Humphreys Bebbington, Tom Broadhurst, and Judith Van den Bosch were great friends and intellectual allies in Tarija. I am greatly indebted to community members of the community I call Tarairí, particularly Armando, Sandra, and family, who shared their home, food, warmth, and humor under often difficult circumstances. My arrival in Tarairí was facilitated by Bret Gustafson, whose long-standing research with the Guaraní of Bolivia was a source of inspiration. Beyond Tarija, individuals from Oxfam, CEJIS, CEDLA, CEADES, CIPCA, Fundación TIERRA, the APG Nacional, CIDOB, and INRA took time out of busy work agendas to engage in this research.

At the University of Cambridge, Sarah A. Radcliffe was a generous and engaging mentor whose critical insights made this a more rigorous piece of scholarship. Research was funded by a 1+3 Studentship from the Economic and Social Research Council. The Cartographic Unit at the University of Cambridge did an expert job making the maps that appear in this book. The writing of this book was made possible by a Ciriacy-Wantrup Postdoctoral Fellowship at the University of California, Berkeley (2014–2016). At Berkeley, Michael Watts provided guidance and encouragement that enabled my writing to develop in new directions, and I was inspired and challenged by conversations with Donald Moore. Nancy Postero, Bret Gustafson, Sian Lazar, Cheryl McEwan, and Mario Blaser provided invaluable feedback on early versions of this book. Amy Kennemore, Paula Saravia, Jorge Montesinos, Devin Beaulieu, and Andrea Marston gave incisive comments on individual chapters. Tony Bebbington, Fiona Wilson, and Sandip Hazareesingh helped the research for this book get off the ground. During the final stages of editing, I received useful comments from colleagues in the Rule and Rupture Program at the University of Copenhagen. I am especially grateful to the program’s director Christian Lund for his patience and generosity during this period. I have been fortunate to have four wonderful editors for this book—Jim Lance at Cornell University Press and series editors Wendy Wolford, Nancy Lee Peluso, and Michael Goldman—who have provided expert guidance and support throughout the publication process.

Finally, I thank my friends and family for all the support they have given me throughout the research and writing process, particularly my parents, Louise and Taf Anthias.

Abbreviations

Note on Pseudonyms

In early drafts of this book, I followed the ethnographic tradition of anonymizing all of the people and some of the places that appear in the chapters. I ultimately came to question the ethical validity of this approach, which seemed bizarre and even dishonest to some of my interlocutors. In 2016 and 2017, I contacted those people I was able to reach to ask whether they wished me to use their real name or a pseudonym. All of those consulted opted to use their real name and I have respected their wishes. Nevertheless, owing to the sensitive nature of the conflicts described, I have maintained some pseudonyms, particularly for APG IG leaders and private landowners whose property claims I discuss. I have maintained the pseudonym Tarairí for the Guaraní community I lived in, because of the ongoing APG IG leadership struggle and the potential for identifying individuals.¹ Surrounding properties and communities have also been anonymized.

The following names that appear in the book are pseudonyms: Guaraní community members: Fausto, Julio, Bertha, Mabel, Mariana, Hermes, Victoria, Mario, Lorenzo, Rómulo, Jimena, Benita, Jennifer, Alcides, Felix, Alejandro; Guaraní leaders: Celestino, Teodoro, Julio Navarro, Nestor Borrerro, Fabio Montes, Horacio Tarabuko, Angelo, Román, Santiago; state officials: José, Lino, Jorge Campero; non-indigenous land claimants: Beatriz Vaca, Roberto Vaca, Rubén Roble, Winston Mignolo, Oswaldo Cortez, Simón Mendez, Maarten, Franco; técnicos: Freddy Gordillo; Guaraní communities: Tarairí, Yukiporo, Itikirenda, Yumbia; private properties: El Palmar, El Porvenir; Rancho Grande.

Introduction

In March 2009, leaders of the three indigenous peoples of Tarija Department assembled to discuss what they called the land issue—their ongoing struggle to acquire collective property titles formalizing their rights to ancestral territories. These territories had gained legal recognition as Tierras Comunitarias de Origen (native community lands, hereafter TCOs) in 1996, following a long history of indigenous dispossession and political exclusion in the Bolivian lowlands. Yet TCO claims in Tarija Department remained fragmented and incompletely titled after a decade of halting and uneven legal progress. The land titling process had recently gained a new sense of urgency: Bolivians had just approved a new constitution recognizing indigenous peoples’ rights to territorial autonomy—the implementation of which was contingent on consolidation of their land rights in TCOs.¹

The two-day meeting was held in a building owned by an agrarian development organization in the city of Tarija—a journey of four to eight hours for most participants, whose territorial claims lie in the remote and semiarid Chaco region (see figure 1). High on the agenda was the issue of how to overcome the lack of funding for land titling procedures, initial titling funds from the World Bank and Danish government having been exhausted.² Participants criticized Tarija’s departmental government for refusing to contribute additional funds, despite receiving vast revenues from natural gas extraction in TCOs. But even if departmental funds could be secured, someone pointed out, local (non-indigenous) cattle ranching organizations would block their use for TCO titling. Another leader noted that even if the funding issue were overcome, the TCO titling process had so far favored the rights of cattle ranchers—competing claimants for TCO land.

FIGURE 1. Map showing indigenous TCO claims in the Bolivian Chaco (elaborated by Cartographic Unit, Department of Geography, University of Cambridge, adapted from map 5.8 in Fundación TIERRA, 2011: 125)

It was now Evo Morales’s fourth year in office as president of Bolivia, and indigenous peoples in the Chaco were still, as they often joked, awaiting the arrival of the plurinational state.³ Still, many hoped that direct appeals to the central government might enable them to advance with the TCO titling process and circumvent the authority of elite-dominated regional institutions, which had failed to fully implement indigenous land rights over the previous decade. In fact, the objective of this assembly was to meet with national representatives of the Instituto Nacional de Reforma Agraria (National Agrarian Reform Institute, INRA) and the Land Ministry, who had been invited by letter several weeks earlier, following a failed meeting with departmental officials.

To my surprise, on the second day of the assembly, a delegation of state functionaries arrived, including the national director of INRA, Juan Carlos Rojas, and representatives from the Land Ministry and Ministry of Rural Development. Although frequently requested by the indigenous leaders, the presence of such high-level officials at indigenous assemblies in Tarija is rare. Yet this assembly was being held at a critical moment in indigenous-state relations under the Morales government. The state oil company Yacimientos Petrolíferos Fiscales Bolivianos (YPFB) and the Ministry of Hydrocarbons were engaged in tense negotiations with Chaco indigenous peoples over hydrocarbon development in TCOs. The government was also eager to build political alliances with lowland indigenous movements as part of a strategy to undermine departmental autonomy movements led by right-wing elites in Bolivia’s eastern lowlands, which had rocked Morales’s first term in office.

Despite these incentives for a constructive engagement, Rojas’s speech failed to satisfy indigenous participants. Their response owed less to the speech’s content—Rojas promised an ambitious target for TCO titling based on funds from the Dutch and Danish embassies—than the fact that many of those present doubted whether this would result in the full legal recognition of their land rights. In a context of intensifying hydrocarbon development within TCOs, many of them believed that funding shortages and local landowner opposition had become a convenient smokescreen for national inaction. As the president of Itika Guasu, a Guaraní TCO claim that overlies Bolivia’s biggest gas field, put it the previous day:

The bottleneck isn’t the issue that there are social conflicts. That isn’t the fear. The bottleneck that exists here now is that they [the government] have constitutionalized the consultation process, the bottleneck is investment in energy development [to export] abroad—that’s the problem of this government. If I were the president, I’d do the same, compañeros. Why give them the title if it’s going to bring conflicts to fulfill the commitments of energy development overseas? They export gas, oil [from our territories], and without consulting us! That’s the fear. So, better [for the government] to continue delaying with the titling processes, because then they can evade responsibilities and continue doing energy development of all our territory.

As this demonstrates, although land rights and subsoil rights are legally separated—the latter are owned by the Bolivian state—they are intimately connected in practice.

It was this cynicism that ultimately won the day. Following Rojas’s speech, the assembly’s chair declared an hour’s recess, during which participants discussed the need to take action. After much deliberation, they settled on a resolution declaring a STATE OF EMERGENCY AND GENERAL MOBILIZATION in all our communities from this date on, granting the government a fixed term to propose definitive solutions to our land demands and reserving the right to take other measures—that is, direct action such as road blockades and marches to pressure the government to meet their demands.

The preamble to the resolution conveys indigenous peoples’ frustration at what they saw as the Morales government’s failure to transform a historical trajectory of state-sponsored indigenous dispossession in the Chaco:

Considering

That: The Bolivian State, throughout the course of its history, has snatched the territory from indigenous peoples, with facts like the revolution of 1952 and the Agrarian Reform, which didn’t resolve the dispossession, but rather encouraged large estates in indigenous territories of the lowlands.

That: The neoliberal model applied in the country for twenty years has consolidated this dispossession, with a process of land titling that has favored the interests of the groups of economic and political power more than the indigenous peoples.

That: The Process of Change begun in 2005 until now has also failed to show clear signs of resolving our historic demands, given that there is no clear policy and concrete actions to advance with the consolidation of our territories.

That: The work of INRA has not contributed significantly toward resolving the territorial demands and, on the contrary, with its work it has made invisible some of our communities … contributing in this way to the disintegration of our ancestral territories.

That: Despite the fact that the wealth that sustains the Bolivian State is in our territories, they tell us that there is no money to conclude with the titling of our land demands.

As the last statement reveals, indigenous peoples’ perception that the state’s failure to recognize their land rights was connected to the gas being pumped daily from their territories—the economic basis for Morales’s post-neoliberal project—added to this sense of injustice.

For Guaraní leaders in TCO Itika Guasu, this meeting marked a turning point. Over the previous decade, their struggle for territory had focused primarily on lobbying the government to complete the TCO titling process—an agenda shared by other Chaco indigenous organizations. A few months after the meeting, this strategy took a different course. In June 2009 the Guaraní leadership of Itika Guasu wrote to the Morales government’s Land Ministry requesting the indefinite suspension of the TCO titling process in their territory. In December 2010 they signed an agreement with the Spanish oil company Repsol, ending a decade- long conflict over hydrocarbon development in Bolivia’s biggest gas field, Campo Margarita.

This agreement has provided the basis for a new vision of territory and autonomy in Itika Guasu. Speaking to communities in 2011, the TCO’s president heralded the agreement as granting full legal recognition of our property rights over the native community territory. By full legal recognition, he referred to the production of a written agreement, overseen by international lawyers, in which Repsol acknowledged the Guaraní’s property rights over TCO Itika Guasu.⁴ While this statement of rights had no legal standing under Bolivian law, Guaraní leaders saw the agreement as an alternative to a state land title. They believed it could be used in subsequent private negotiations as evidence of their property rights over the entire TCO territory—not only the fragments of land titled to them by the state.

Leaders in Itika Guasu also saw the agreement as offering an alternative pathway to territorial autonomy, in a context where the Morales government’s indigenous autonomy process remained unviable. Among the terms of the agreement was the creation of an Itika Guasu Investment Fund totaling $14.8 million, the interest from which was to be managed independently by the Guaraní organization. The TCO president described the Investment Fund as part of our long-term funding strategy, which will permit us to carry forward our own development [and] guarantees our real autonomy and that of our children. This was a chance to pursue a vision of self-governance that had underpinned their territorial claim but had been eroded by the long and frustrating process of TCO titling. Rather than signaling an abandonment of territory, this vision represents a bold effort to recapture territory through a different means and in different idioms. While fraught with ambivalence, this vision has far-reaching implications for sovereignty, autonomy, and governance.

*

This book tells the story of one indigenous group’s recent struggle (beginning in the late 1980s) to regain control of their ancestral territory. This struggle followed a century of state-backed dispossession and took place amidst a contemporary boom in hydrocarbon development. The book charts their frustrating engagements with a multicultural indigenous land titling process, their growing disillusionment with a leftist government, and the emergence of a new vision of territorial autonomy based on indigenous control of gas rents.

The people at the center of this story are thirty-six Guaraní communities of the remote and gas-rich Chaco region. These communities organized during the late 1980s to free themselves from a regime of debt peonage on mestizo haciendas.⁵ They began by occupying private land and establishing maize-farming cooperatives, a task supported by local NGOs and overshadowed by the threat of violent retribution from landowners. Soon after, they began mapping a territorial claim, which they named Itika Guasu (in Guaraní, Big River) after the Pilcomayo River.⁶

This was part of a wave of indigenous resurgence across Bolivia’s eastern lowlands, focused primarily on the demand for territory. Brought together by a shared history of dispossession and political exclusion, the participating communities in Bolivia’s indigenous movement exploited openings in an evolving and contested market-led development agenda. In 1996, a World Bank–sponsored agrarian reform process culminated in the establishment of native community lands (TCOs), a new kind of land title through which indigenous peoples could claim collective rights to their ancestral territories.

The World Bank and European donors argued that TCOs would protect indigenous peoples from the negative impacts of capitalist development, enabling them to practice traditional and environmentally sustainable forms of development (see chapter 1). The Guaraní saw TCOs as a vehicle for a historically grounded project of reclaiming territory. At the heart of their vision was the notion of becoming iyambae (free, without an owner), associated with the recovery of control over their territory and bodies following a century of racialized subjugation and debt peonage.

In practice, TCOs have failed to meet these aspirations. In the Chaco region, TCOs have emerged as legally fragmented and contested territories,⁷ interspersed with private cattle ranches, and traversed by a growing network of gas wells, pipelines, and other hydrocarbon infrastructure. Indigenous communities continue to struggle to access land and resources required to sustain their livelihoods, while their leaders have become embroiled in lengthy battles over prior consultation and compensation.

The 2005 election of Evo Morales failed to transform these dynamics. Bolivia’s first indigenous president, Morales swept to power amidst a series of mobilizations by peasants, workers, and indigenous movements. His Movimiento al Socialismo party (Movement toward Socialism, MAS) promised an end to neoliberalism—two decades of pro-market reform that had benefited transnational companies and elites while impoverishing many Bolivians. Shortly after taking office, Morales nationalized Bolivia’s oil and gas fields, the profits from which have been channeled into a range of social programs. Morales also promised to redress the political marginalization faced by indigenous peoples throughout the country’s history. He began by convening a Plurinational Constituent Assembly to rewrite Bolivia’s constitution. The resulting document, approved by popular referendum in 2009, is probably the most extensive framework of indigenous rights ever recognized by a nation-state.

Despite such constitutional advances, most indigenous peoples have seen little progress on their territorial claims. In the Chaco region of Tarija Department, progress on TCO land titling has remained paralyzed while conflicts over hydrocarbon development in TCOs have intensified. Morales’s promise of a second agrarian revolution has gradually given way to political accommodations with capitalist and landowning elites, reproducing familiar dynamics of state-formation in the Bolivian lowlands that have long marginalized indigenous peoples.

By exploring these dynamics—and the surprising responses they have given rise to—I rethink common ideas about indigenous territories, cultural politics, and the Bolivian process of change. It would be easy to dismiss recent events in Itika Guasu as a familiar case of an indigenous leadership selling out to a powerful oil company. Instead, I argue that these dynamics have to be understood as a response to the failure of multicultural (or post-multicultural) forms of recognition to transform on-the-ground relations of resource access and control in indigenous territories of the Bolivian Chaco, or to satisfy indigenous demands for territory.

I highlight how indigenous territorial demands have been undermined by two interlinked sets of dynamics: historical articulations of race, property, and power in the Bolivian Chaco, and the territorial and political dynamics of hydrocarbon development. Following waves of state-backed colonization, the Guaraní of Itika Guasu today share their ancestral territory with a heterogeneous population of non-indigenous land claimants. During the land titling process, these competing claimants mobilized threats of violence, clientelistic networks, and racialized discourses of rights to defend their property claims and obstruct the implementation of indigenous land rights. Their interests were supported by the arrival of oil companies in the territory, which made land use agreements with private land claimants and created incentives to prevent the implementation of indigenous land rights. My analysis sheds light on the enduring collusions between non-indigenous landowners, capitalist resource interests, and state power that have underpinned Bolivia’s hydrocarbon boom and the constraints they place on indigenous efforts at reclaiming territory.

I also place the Itika Guasu leadership’s vision of gas-funded autonomy in a more contemporary context: a moment in Bolivia at which unrealized dreams of a plurinational state are giving way to the contradictory dynamics of a hydrocarbon-based development model. Rather than putting an end to struggles around hydrocarbon governance, the nationalization of hydrocarbons under the Morales government has produced a range of competing territorial projects and claims forged in relation to gas rents. I use the concept of hydrocarbon citizenship to analyze how notions of recognition, authority, and rights are being rearticulated—and reterritorialized—in relation to the governance of hydrocarbons.

Beyond the Map

Since the 1990s, communal mapping and land titling have emerged as a central focus of indigenous activism in various national and regional contexts.⁸ Such initiatives continue to gain support from development institutions and NGOs—more recently as a win-win solution to land grabs and carbon emissions from deforestation.⁹ This forms part of a renewed focus on land issues and thrust toward formalization within global development policy. Underlying much of the enthusiasm around indigenous land rights is an assumption that legal-cartographic recognition by the state represents success for indigenous struggles for territory. This book challenges that assumption.

Combining insights from postcolonial geography and political ecology, I show how racialized inequalities and broader relations of political economy shaped property rights and land control in TCOs, notwithstanding their formal designation as indigenous territories.¹⁰ Moving beyond critiques of neoliberal policy agendas,¹¹ or the representational limits of maps,¹² this book approaches indigenous territories as a site of articulation and struggle between competing sovereignty claims and territorial projects.

My analysis departs from an understanding of territory as a social relation that is produced and transformed through struggle (Lefebvre 1991; Brenner and Elden 2009). A postcolonial account of territory highlights how such struggles are constrained (discursively and materially) by sedimented histories of racialized violence (Said 1978; Wainwright 2008; Sparke 2005). While TCOs had some empowering effects as representations, they did not have the power to override state boundaries, private property, or transnational resource concessions. Rather, their spatial production was shaped by other historical and contemporary processes of territorialization (Vandergeest and Peluso 1995; Peluso and Lund 2013).

Multicultural discourses of indigeneity obscure these complex realities of postcolonial territory. So too do activist countermapping practices, which may airbrush out the inconvenient presence of non-indigenous actors in an effort to conform to global multicultural imaginaries and win national recognition (see chapter 2). Rather than resolving indigenous land claims, processes of indigenous mapping may work to create misleading perceptions of indigenous land control that can be used against indigenous movements. This has already occurred in Bolivia, where TCOs have been attacked by peasant groups as the new latifundios and by Morales’s vice president Álvaro García Linera as oversized in relation to indigenous land needs—accusations that obscure the actual fragmented status of land rights and land control in many TCOs.¹³

I do not mean to suggest that indigenous mapping and land titling never serve the agendas of indigenous movements. My point is that we cannot take such gains for granted. Understanding the lasting effects and legacies of indigenous land titling requires ethnographic engagement at a variety of sites and scales, beyond the initial mapping process.

The Politics of Recognition

This book also speaks to broader debates on the possibilities and limits of a politics of recognition for indigenous decolonizing struggles. On one level, indigenous territorial claims challenge left-materialist critiques of identity politics, showing that identity-based claims can be transformative and redistributional rather than simply affirmative in scope (Coulthard 2014). For people who have suffered histories of dispossession that were intimately connected to their status as non-citizens, an analytical separation between recognition and redistribution makes little sense. Nevertheless, this book demonstrates how cultural recognition can become severed from material claims in the process of claiming territorial rights.

In recent Latin Americanist scholarship, recognition politics have been closely associated with the concept of neoliberal multiculturalism, a term coined by Charles Hale to describe the limited forms of cultural recognition granted by proponents of a market-led development agenda during the 1990s (Hale 2002, 2005, 2006, 2011). Sponsored by the World Bank and implemented during a second wave of structural adjustment in Bolivia, TCOs highlight the ambivalent relationship between cultural rights and capitalist development. Indeed, much of this book is about how TCOs were conditioned by concurrent processes of marketization, in ways that had profound implications for indigenous resource control.

Ultimately, however, this book exposes the limits of this critique. TCOs were not simply the outcome of a governmental project; rather, they emerged from a contingent process of negotiation and struggle involving a heterogeneous set of actors at a moment of political crisis (chapter 1). Labeling TCOs neoliberal tells us little about how these territories came into being, and even less about the dynamics of their implementation in the Chaco, where global and national agendas were reworked by local actors deploying their own historically grounded notions of rights and justice (chapter 3).

Most important, by locating the limits of cultural rights in a particular governmental paradigm—a kind of recognition trap that indigenous peoples fell blindly into—critiques of neoliberal multiculturalism obscure the deeper structures of coloniality and capitalism that condition indigenous struggles for territory in the present. In doing so, they leave us with few tools to understand why indigenous peoples have continued to face similar constraints—alongside an expanding framework of cultural rights—following the election of a self- proclaimed post-neoliberal government. Many scholars and activists interpreted the 2005 election of Evo Morales as evidence of indigenous peoples’ ability to push beyond a neoliberal politics of recognition in pursuit of more radical systemic change (Postero 2007; Hart 2010). These movements succeeded in bringing into being a more equitable regime of economic distribution. Yet when it comes to indigenous demands for territory, the gap between cultural recognition and resource control has persisted.

Understanding these continuities requires situating the multicultural reforms of the 1990s within a longer story of indigenous dispossession, exclusionary citizenship, and resource extraction in the Bolivian lowlands. It also means locating the neoliberal territorial turn (Bryan 2012) within a longer history of colonial governmentality and ethnic spatial fixes (Li 2010; Moore 2005). In providing this historical perspective, this book speaks to accounts that interrogate the politics of recognition as a feature of settler colonial and postcolonial governance (Coulthard 2014; Simpson 2014; Rivera Cusicanqui 2012; Povinelli 2002 and 2011; Engle 2010). Such accounts highlight how (post)colonial recognition is always conditioned by colonial knowledge-power inequalities and settler interests in indigenous territory and resources. Nevertheless, whereas these accounts focus on indigenous engagements with settler states—which sometimes appear as monolithic and all-powerful sovereign actors—this book situates struggles over recognition in a more complex and contested terrain of (post)colonial sovereignty, marked by the presence of non-state actors—from local landowners to hydrocarbon companies. Manifestations of the state in the Chaco were continually refracted by these local and global claims to sovereignty. In fact, state authority was produced through these localized struggles over property and resources (Lund 2016).

This complicates the idea that indigenous peoples could simply turn away from a politics of recognition to focus on constructing their own forms of self-governance (Coulthard 2014; Simpson 2014). It was the presence of these other territorial actors in indigenous territories—and the everyday challenges this posed for indigenous land control—that prompted the Guaraní to turn to the state for recognition in the first place. While the agreement with Repsol can certainly be read as a gesture of turning away from the state, the outcome was not a focus on self-recognition but a shift toward hydrocarbon negotiations as the context for achieving recognition. The state did not disappear from the picture; state institutions continued to engage with the Guaraní over hydrocarbon development, as well as supporting local elites seeking to oust them from power. Yet agrarian law was not the only—nor necessarily the most important—forum for achieving territorial recognition.

In sum, this book does not depart from the idea that postcolonial claims to recognition are inherently misguided or limited in scope. Rather, I examine the conditions under which, and the processes through which, indigenous demands for recognition of territory and sovereignty become severed from their material foundations and rerouted toward empty gestures of cultural affirmation or forms of rent-sharing. These conditions are linked both to the persistence of colonial knowledge-power inequalities and to the limits that a carbon-based capitalist economy places on politics at sites of extraction (see Mitchell 2011).

Indigeneity, Extraction, and New Left Governments

This book provides new insight into the relationship between indigenous peoples, resource extraction, and new left governments in Latin America. In doing so, it raises critical questions about the meaning of decolonization and the role of the state in achieving it. The election of Evo Morales as Bolivia’s president in 2005 generated widespread optimism among international leftist observers and indigenous rights advocates. To many, Morales’s election represented the possibility of a more equitable and decolonized development model. A 2007 speech by Vice President García Linera encapsulated a post-neoliberal vision in which state ownership of Bolivia’s natural resources—the socialization of collective wealth—would go hand in hand with the construction of a new, unified Bolivian national society, characterized by varying forms of democratic expression (community-based, territorially-based, direct, and participatory) (García Linera 2007). Here, García Linera presents the nationalization of hydrocarbons as complementary to, and even necessary for, the thriving of indigenous forms of self-governance.

Since that time, the tensions between indigenous territorial rights and state extractivism have become increasingly visible, and have been subjected to extensive commentary and debate—both in Bolivia and in anglophone academic scholarship.¹⁴ These accounts point to the watering down of indigenous and peasant demands in the 2009 constitution and accompanying laws, the weak implementation of indigenous rights in the context of extractive industry development, and resultant social tensions between the government and its social movement bases. Some authors have interpreted these tensions as reflective of the divergence between the developmentalist and capitalist vision of New Left governments, and more radical social movement visions centered on the concept of vivir bien (living well) (Escobar 2010; Gudynas 2010).¹⁵ Other scholars have highlighted the policy constraints and path-dependent dynamics faced by the MAS government in the context of global capitalism (Kaup 2010; Gustafson and Fabricant 2011) and liberal nation-building (Postero 2017).

In this book I illuminate continuities in the relationships between extraction, territory, and state power in the Bolivian lowlands that are hidden by macro-level institutional or economic analysis. For example, I interrogate the hidden practices and colonial discourses through which non-indigenous property claims have been privileged over indigenous territorial rights in gas-rich lands. I trace how the MAS has consolidated its power in the Bolivian lowlands through political accommodations with landowning elites, who have remade themselves as the unlikely representatives of a plurinational state. In doing so, I show how ethnographic work at indigenous resource frontiers can shed important light on the limits of contemporary resource nationalist projects.

I also reveal how a new discourse of state-led decolonization and national forms of gas rent distribution have shifted the terms of resource conflicts in Bolivia—and not necessarily in indigenous peoples’ favor. Groups like the Guaraní of Itika Guasu who demand recognition of their territorial rights—including the right to be consulted on any extraction of resources from their territory—have been framed by the Morales government as a threat to national development. These dynamics highlight how Latin America’s new extraction has pitted the interests of poor and marginalized groups outside sites of extraction (who have benefited from gas-funded social programs) against those who suffer the direct social and environmental impacts of extraction—particularly indigenous peoples whose territories overlie key gas reserves.

Recent dynamics in Itika Guasu, however, challenge accounts that construct state extractivism and indigenous territorial projects in purely oppositional terms, revealing how indigenous peoples are participating in struggles over distribution of gas rents under the MAS government. Whereas others have highlighted the intimate relationship between hydrocarbons and nation in Morales’s Bolivia (Perreault 2014; Perreault and Valdivia 2010; Gustafson 2011), my analysis of hydrocarbon citizenship sheds light on how local actors articulate hydrocarbons and citizenship from the ground up. I draw particular attention to the territorializing effects of such articulations in Bolivia, where struggles over distribution of gas rents have produced competing modes of spatializing practice (Gustafson 2011). TCOs are emerging as key sites for such articulations.

Indigenous engagements in hydrocarbon citizenship are fraught with ambivalence and disagreement, and produce new inequalities (Humphreys Bebbington and Bebbington 2011). Yet these engagements also represent a bold attempt to recapture the political content of territory and its long-standing association with indigenous political autonomy—a dimension that was evacuated from the TCO titling process and domesticated by the MAS government (Garcés 2011). A key objective of this book, then, is to situate emergent forms of indigenous hydrocarbon citizenship—which position TCOs as governable spaces within a hydrocarbon economy—in the wake of the frustrated aspirations for territory produced by multicultural and plurinational governmental projects.

As this reveals, nationalist assertions of resource sovereignty do not imply a spatial containment of sovereignty in practice (Emel, Huber, and Makene 2011). Conversely, efforts to reclaim the local (Escobar 2008) may contribute toward—and seek to exploit—the dispersal of sovereignty across multiple scales. Rather than imagining indigenous movements and leftist governments as natural allies in a challenge to neoliberalism from below, I highlight the shifting alignments of sovereignty—as well as the conflicts—that have emerged between capital, the state, indigenous peoples, and other territorial actors under the Morales government. Following Michael Watts (2009), I show how negotiations (and Faustian bargains) over sovereignty can produce new forms of governable spaces that may be at odds with those of the state (chapter 6).

Research at Postcolonial Frontiers

This research deployed an open-ended, multi-sited ethnographic research strategy that combined participant observation, in-depth interviewing, documentary analysis, archival research, participatory mapping, focus groups, institutional ethnography, and a household survey.¹⁶ These methods were selected and refined in context, guided by questions that were also informed by ethnographic engagement—an approach that resembles what Kim Fortun terms open systems ethnography (2012). The use of ethnographic methods distinguishes this book from most existing studies of indigenous land titling, which tend to rely on a combination of legal-cartographic data, elite interviews, and institutional and policy analysis to identify statistical progress, procedural shortcomings, and technocratic innovations to overcome these shortcomings (Coombes, Johnson, and Howitt 2011).

I began the research in late 2008, when I worked for ten months as a self-funded volunteer in the NGO CERDET (Centro de Estudios Regionales para el Desarrollo de Tarija).¹⁷ While this provided an important entry point into the politics and history of indigenous land claims in Tarija, I soon realized the limitations of an overt institutional affiliation. Before long, I had discarded my CERDET cap and begun to travel independently or with Guaraní leaders. In addition to CERDET’s office, I worked frequently from the Tarija-based Concejo de Capitanes Guaraníes de Tarija (Council of Guaraní Captains of Tarija, CCGT),